Pit Stop
by Lady Jane Doe
Summary: Harry, Hermione, and Ron learn the value of the kindness of strangers, Harry in particular. PostHBP. Minor OCs. Oneshot.


**A:N**: This was one of my first one-shots that I wrote in the summer. Previously, I uploaded it on a former penname, but I took it down and essentially shut the handle down. I spent a lot of time reading HBP and this idea just… presented itself in my brain, for lack of a better term. I thought it would be interesting and completely workable, if I did it the right way. So you guys tell me. Did I do it the right way? Or should I be crucified immediately? Concrit is welcome like you wouldn't believe. Thank you and come again.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter or any other canonical characters. Those are property of the Goddess that is Rowling. We are not worthy! .:bows down before her:. Any other character is this story is not even worth stealing, so it would be useless to ask you to not do it.

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**Pit Stop**

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The Andersons inhabited a quiet house in a quiet suburb – not the kind of quiet one would encounter in Privet Drive, but a peaceful quiet, one that had traces of life being lived with all its unexpected twists. They were an old couple that had lived most of their lives together, with children and grandchildren to show for it. In fact, they'd lived so long together that they even had the same peaceful and awkwardly graceful air. Every day's routine was much the same ever since their children had left the house: Bill would leave for the office around eight o'clock and return at six. Olivia stayed home and tended the house, her garden, anything. Occasionally she taught piano lessons for the energetic children of the neighborhood. They adored her, and the Andersons' home was a frequent haunt for them. Bill and Olivia loved them in return, but knew that after they left, they would forget all about the kindly old couple who gave them cookies and milk after school. So they followed their days, all much the same, one following another.

One evening, however, at the end of July, Olivia sat up in her chair and squinted out the drawing-room window. "Bill," she said, rousing her husband from his reverie, "Bill, look at the street. There's a light."

Bill looked up from his plate. "Could be a car, Olivia," he said dismissively, but turned around in order to better see out the window.

Sure enough, there was a soft light that was certainly not coming from a car. As it neared their little house, they could see three youths silhouetted in the street. Olivia rose, distressed. "Nobody should be out at this hour," she said, throwing a glance at the clock. "Why don't I go talk to them, see what they're up to—"

"Nonsense, it's probably just a couple of kids, causing a ruckus—"

"Not the children in this neighborhood, Bill. And even if they are, shouldn't someone stop them?" Olivia already had her hand on the door as she finished her sentence. She twisted the knob and pulled the door open just as the three figures were stepping in front of her pathway. "Oh, dears, what are you doing out here? Mr. Anderson and I just noticed you and were wondering—" She flew down the path towards them and they stopped.

Bill set his plate down, hoisted himself up off the chair and headed towards the doorway. "Now, Olivia, don't frighten the kids," he called after his wife.

Olivia stopped in front of them. She could now see them clearly, illuminated by the light they were carrying. The three of them couldn't be older than seventeen or eighteen, and they all looked so weary, she thought. The girl, bushy-haired and dirt-streaked, and one of the boys – a tall, redheaded boy with freckles scattered all over his thin nose – were clutching each other's hands. Both looked wary and tired beyond belief.

But it was the other boy that caught her eye. Aside from his rumpled, dusty black hair and his curiously shaped scar (it almost looked like a lightning bolt), it was his bottle-green eyes that drew her in. Almost hidden by his glasses, they looked so empty, so inscrutable… and yet, so tired….

It was the girl who spoke first. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We're just passing through here… if we disturbed you in any way—" She looked over at the boy with the glasses, who murmured something Olivia couldn't quite catch. The flashlight in his right hand went out like a candle. In the warm, faint glow from the house, she could just see him stow it away in his back pocket.

"No, no," Olivia said quickly. "You didn't disturb us at all. I was just wondering if your parents knew where you were. It's awfully late," she added after a pause. "I'm not reprimanding you, of course, but I should think that, if they don't, you could come in and call them." She gestured towards the open door, where Bill stood. "We wouldn't mind at all."

The redheaded boy shook his head. "My parents don't have a fellytone," he said, earning a jab in the ribs from the girl. "Maybe you could call your mum and dad, Hermione."

Hermione's head turned towards the boy with the glasses. "Well," she said reluctantly, "I'm sure they would appreciate that…. But we have to keep moving…."

The boy with the glasses shook his head. "It's okay, Hermione," he said. "Call your parents. They're probably worried."

Olivia felt an odd sense of apprehension from the black-haired boy. "Don't you want to call your family, too?" she asked him hesitatingly.

He looked at the older woman and shook his head. "No. They don't really care," he said simply, and she suddenly felt a pang of pity for the boy. So young, and spoken with such honesty! She couldn't help wanting to do something for this ragged and tired trio. Glancing back at the house, a thought struck her, but she said nothing except, "Well, come in, all of you."

The three trooped in after her, and Bill looked at them with disbelieving eyes. "Olivia," he started, "what are you—"

"Guide this young lady to the telephone, Bill," she said firmly, but not unkindly. Her eyes sought out those of the black-haired boy. "I would like a talk with these two gentlemen." Her husband blinked, but obeyed and led the girl called Hermione to the kitchen. Olivia nodded towards the sofa. "Take a seat," she said warmly, and the two complied uncertainly. She settled in on her chair facing the window. "Now," she began, "why don't you two tell me why three young people are wandering the streets at this time of night, without their parents' knowledge, and with virtually nothing on them?" They looked at her blankly. "You can start with your names," she added gently.

The redheaded boy jerked his head in a stiff and weary nod. "Told you we should have just Apparated," he muttered to his companion.

"Look, just a few more hours, Ron," the black-haired boy argued quietly. "Besides, you can turn back if you want, still. Excuse me, ma'am," he started, directing this last bit towards Olivia, "how far from Godric's Hollow are we?"

Startled, she replied, "Godric's Hollow? A few hours' drive, but if you're walking it'll take a day and a half, maybe even two. Is that where you're headed? And on foot?" She paused. "Can nobody take you there?"

The boy gave a half-hearted smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, no one can take us there," he said tiredly. Ron put his hand on his friend's shoulder protectively.

"Must you go?"

He locked eyes with her. "Yes," he said quietly. "We must."

She took in the sight of them: two boys, not much older than her second grandchild, with a girl who couldn't possibly be any older – all traveling for goodness knows how long, on foot, at mercy to the perils of the road, without even a place to lay their heads at night. "Where are you staying tonight?" she asked, half-knowing the answer.

They were silent. "We'll find someplace," said the black-haired boy.

"At this time of night? Certainly not," she said firmly. "Stay here for the night. We have two guest bedrooms: you two may sleep in one, and your friend can have the other. There will be no trouble at all. You can eat up before you sleep – there's still some pot roast left over, and some potatoes – and you'll eat breakfast before you leave."

"We couldn't possibly—" the black-haired boy began, but Olivia shushed him.

"Nonsense." She rose. "Now, into the kitchen. Pot roast is on the table; just grab a plate and help yourself." The two boys exchanged a weary glance but both rose and followed her into the kitchen.

Bill was at the table and had heard Olivia's offer. "Olivia," he said quietly to her as she sat down next to him, "are you sure offering these kids a place to stay is the wisest thing to do?"

Olivia watched as Hermione joined the two boys, who immediately engaged her in a murmured conversation. "Yes," she said softly. "I would not throw these children back out on the streets now." Now that I can tell something is terribly wrong, she added to herself, but didn't say so to Bill. The look on Ron and Hermione's faces were one and the same: worried, scared, tired; but on their companion's face she could see determination rising above that inscrutable look. She saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a golden locket, rubbing it almost absentmindedly before putting it away again.

The three teenagers joined Bill and Olivia at the table, carrying plates laden with food. "Thank you so much for your offer, ma'am," Hermione said. "If it's okay with your husband, it would be nice to stay here."

Bill reached for Olivia's hand. "If Olivia is alright with it, I'm alright with it," he said gruffly.

"Oh, good," Olivia said delightedly. "The beds are upstairs and already made. When you're done with dinner, I'll show you around."

--

Olivia sat in her chair, staring out at the window. The fire in the fireplace burned merrily, and the faint glow was enough to see by. Bill had already gone to bed, and the children had been shown their bedrooms and bidden goodnight. So much in one night, she mused. As she rose to pour a cup of tea, a creaking noise turned her head towards the stairs. It was the black-haired boy, slowly coming down the stairs in one of her grandchildren's old pajamas. He stopped at the sight of her. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he started apologetically. "I just couldn't sleep and I thought you were in bed already—"

She waved her hand dismissively. "No, don't be sorry," she replied. "Here, have a seat, I'll just pour you a cup of tea as well." She bustled into the kitchen and entered the den a few minutes later with two cups of tea. The boy was sitting on the couch, staring absently at the fire. The locket was once again in his hands, and he was opening and closing it over and over again.

Olivia bent over and set a cup down in front of him on the coffee table. He started. As she sat down with her tea, she asked, "Whose was it?"

He looked confused, then looked down at the locket in his hands. "Oh. Er, it belonged to a friend… who died." He trailed off.

She nodded her head sympathetically, but said nothing. Instead, she scrutinized his face. All of the determination that had been there just hours before had melted away. In its place was utter loss etched into every line. And then, again, there was that masklike quality, as if he was hiding something.

He stared out at the fire again, and silence came over them. Olivia broke it yet again with, "Excuse my asking, young man, but why Godric's Hollow? What's there that you have to travel at night for? I'm sure that Bill can take you in the car and all…."

He looked up at her directly. "No," he said bluntly. "We shouldn't even have stopped here at your house. There are people who would have taken us in; we only had to walk a little farther and find them. We're putting you in danger by being here. Well," he added after a pause, "at least, I am, anyway."

She was shocked. "Oh, no," she protested, "no! How could you be putting us in danger? And from what?"

He didn't reply. He just looked at her, and she knew that he was not going to tell her.

"Alright then," she continued doggedly, "but what about these people? Why didn't you tell us that there were people to take you in? And why do you have to find them? And you never answered me about Godric's Hollow," she ended pointedly. He sighed.

"Well," he began, playing with the locket chain, "our families have… connections. And we're sure that a friend of our families would take us in for the night. We'd just have to find them, because we're not sure where they live. And…" He hesitated. "Godric's Hollow… well, there's something that might be there that I need to find."

She didn't say anything. She just let him talk.

"And I don't want this," he said, almost to himself. "I mean, I know that I have to do this, and I want to, sort of, but… all of this… the people around me will suffer the most. What if Ron and Hermione die?" He looked up at her blindly, and she had an odd feeling that it wasn't her that he was talking to now. "What if they die, and it's my fault? What if he goes after the Weasleys? Or… or anyone? What do I do then?" He broke off, still searching her face as if she held all of the answers.

Soothingly, calmly, she said, "No one will die, young man. Well, not before their appointed time, but that's not any time soon. Ron and Hermione are young and strong; they won't die soon."

He shifted his gaze to the fire again. "I just wish that Sirius was still here," he muttered. "I need to talk to him. I need his advice. I need…."

She cut in reassuringly. "But you seem to be doing fine on your own. Look, where have you come from?"

He shifted a little. "Little Whinging in Surrey."

Concealing her concern, she continued, "See? Look how far you've come, and with only two people to rely on! You are doing splendidly on your own. Whatever it is that you need to find, you will do so. And it is my belief that you shall do so with flying colours."

He looked at her bleakly again. "D'you think so?" he asked wistfully.

She gazed at him. This was a boy who had lost so much and yet was still pressing on to some unknown task. He wasn't worried about himself; rather, he was concerned about those near and dear to him. She couldn't shake the maternal instinct that lay deep in her bones, that told her to enfold the boy in her arms and keep him safe from anything that might hurt him – and she also couldn't shake the feeling that, despite her soothing words, he was in grave danger.

But somehow she knew that he was aware of her struggle over treating him as an adult and abandoning all pretense and warding off any danger that may come his way, and she sensed that he was determined to keep her out of it – a feeling that was strengthened when he stood up abruptly and looked at the clock.

"Is your clock right?" he asked.

She stared at him. "Well, of course it is," she replied, startled, just as the clock rang out midnight.

He was silent for a moment, then muttered, "It's my birthday, then. I'm seventeen."

A stunned silence blanketed them. Olivia couldn't help but gape at him. "Seven… seventeen?" she repeated faintly.

"Yes." He looked away. "I should get back to bed."

As he headed up the stairs, she rose and reached for his arm. At the tug, he turned around and gazed at her, tired but inquisitive, weary and curious.

"Listen," she said urgently. "I may be just an old woman, but I will tell you this truly: I have never met another seventeen year old like you. Whatever it is that you have to do – no, I don't want you to tell me," she added firmly as he opened his mouth to reply. "Whatever it is, I can tell that it is dangerous and secretive, but that you must do it, and that you will do it wonderfully. You may not want to confide in me, but I can tell you that you will be marvelous. And you will succeed, for whatever reasons it is that you are throwing yourself into it."

He was silent, and the two stared at each other for a few, drawn-out moments: a tired seventeen-year-old young man with a task too fathomable to tell anyone and a determined old woman whose only worry at that moment was for the boy in front of her. Finally, she let go of him and he smiled a little.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I think… yeah, I needed to hear that. Thanks." He turned away again to go up to his room.

Suddenly, impulsively, she called out, "Happy birthday, young man!"

He paused and turned around again, the same smile lingering on his face. "It's Harry," he said. "My name is Harry Potter. And thank you again."

She watched in silence as he continued up the stairs and vanished in the darkness.

---

The next morning, Olivia woke up as early as she dared. She hurried down the hall and peered into the two guest rooms. Both were empty. Unfazed, she headed downstairs, where she half-expected to find Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Bill sitting at the table, eating breakfast. She entered the kitchen and saw Bill standing there with a letter in his hand.

"They're gone, Olivia," he said helplessly, holding out the paper. Wordlessly, she took it and read:

_Dear Mr. And Mrs. Anderson,_

_We're terribly sorry that we couldn't take you up on your offer of breakfast, but we found a way to get to Godric's Hollow without disturbing anyone. You needn't worry about us. We'll be fine._

_We can't thank you enough for letting us stay here last night. It was very much appreciated. We've left payment on the counter in the kitchen. We hope it comes close to repaying you for your kindness and generosity._

_Again, thank you very much._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter_

"And look at the counter," came Bill's voice. Olivia looked up.

Her kitchen counter was laden with food. Cakes, pasties, all sorts of amazing things were just sitting there, perfectly placed. She gasped. "How… how did they…?" she managed to say.

"I dunno," her husband said, awestruck. " 'S like magic, innit? As if they just conjured up all this food…."

But Olivia had moved past the food now. "Bill…." Silently, she held up three huge pieces of solid gold. His jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

"That's… that's real gold, innit? Cor blimey, Olivia…." He looked up at his wife. "How did three kids like that get ahold of this?"

Her mind was on her conversation with Harry last night. "Magic," she said vaguely. "I have a feeling that it was nothing short of pure magic."


End file.
